Dusty Rose
by Seven Poisons
Summary: A girl of little significance reflects on her life and her city.


Notes from SP:  
  
Hello! This is my first completed (and posted) fanfiction story, and a relatively short one at that. Regardless, please read and review with any comments you have. I especially need suggestions and criticisms, so please feel free to include them in your review. I realize it can be boring to read about an insignificant character, but this was mostly an experimental attempt at writing something different.  
  
"Terranigma" and the character "Ark" (though not mentioned by name) are the property of Enix and Quintet. The main character has no name to be referred to here, but I believe she belongs to Enix and Quintet as well.  
  
Er... enjoy.  
  
- SP  
  
======  
  
"DUSTY ROSE"  
  
======  
  
The bustling city of Loire. My home town.  
  
The passing men eye me critically as I stand there, the worn handle of my wicker basket digging into my arm through the sleeve of my dress. I wouldn't be surprised if they found me unattractive, or even somewhat disgusting; it would mean nothing to me.  
  
Middle-aged women in fur coats and ruffled dresses pretend to take no notice of me as they pass by with their similarly fancy dogs, some of them pointing their noses just slightly higher into the air, subtly tightening their grip on the leash. Others have extravagant purses glittering with sequins or silk embroidery, which they clutch to their waists. Heavily perfumed wigs vie with my flowers for domination of the air, turning the cool, fragrant breeze into a nightmarish wave of blatantly artificial fumes that burn my nostrils relentlessly. It is too obvious to be denied; my flowers could never match up to their augmented counterparts of man's undisciplined fabrication.  
  
Well, I must admit I did look somewhat shabby, with strands of dark copper hair slipping out of their pink ribbons, and faded patches on the front of my navy blue dress where I had knelt on the wooden floor of my mother's threadbare room. According to the average citizen's idea of "home", I did indeed live in that cold, sparsely furnished room on the second floor of the Desjardins apartment building. But I suppose you could say I lived on the streets. I certainly had the look of it.  
  
This is not to say I did not spend substantial time indoors. Sorting tediously through tulips, violets, sprays of jasmine and daisies, with rosethorns waiting in their midst for a careless finger, I would stay in that room for half an hour every morning, and again every evening in the short time before the city's steam- powered clock let out twelve hissing chimes. I had only my old green wool cardigan, which had been given to me by my long- departed grandmother, to keep me warm at night. My mother refused to let me spend any money, not even my own, on clothing of any sort.  
  
Some of the younger women around my own age look at me with occasional curiosity. Others only sigh and lower their eyes; perhaps it is their pity threatening to betray itself. Others, having been closely brought up by the same aforementioned middle- aged women, show the same air of disdain. I don't mind their scorn or their pity. I know that I can never enter their league, and I'm content to stay as I am. But occasionally I am faced with what I dread most: admiration.  
  
-----  
  
"You're very pretty," the little girl had said, her voice filled with the innocent frankness that was possessed by such children. She had gazed up at the basket cradled in my arms, smiling at what I imagined was her view of my face framed by tall daffodil stalks and powdery sprays of white baby's-breath.  
  
"Thank you," I replied politely, stooping down to meet her at eye level. "You're a very beautiful little girl yourself."  
  
"Sylvie! Come here!" a voice barked. Straightening up by instinct, I saw a short and plump woman approaching us, wearing a dark violet cardigan over her navy blue dress. A small cloud of powder cascaded from her curly wig as she neared.  
  
The little girl flinched, a look of misery flitting across her youthful features as she turned around. Wordlessly, the woman lunged forward and snatched her wrist, her glaring eyes pinning me in place the whole time. As she turned around and began to march off into the distance, Sylvie turned back one last time, tears of hope shining in her eyes.  
  
"I want to be just like you," she whispered, "spending every day in the company of pretty flowers."  
  
I wanted to tell her otherwise, but she had already disappeared.  
  
-----  
  
To them, the basket is nothing more than a large bouquet in a box, an array of colors, insignificant to their daily lives. Of course, they are not completely ignorant of its singular importance in my life. They scorn me. Don't they? Shouldn't they?  
  
-----  
  
Once or twice a child would run past me, nearly knocking me over.  
  
"Vous ne pouvez pas m'attraper!"  
  
The boy turned around and pulled faces in my direction before taking off down the cobbled streets. Sighing, I looked behind me. Sure enough, two other young boys were approaching at a run, one with a fierce sneer and the other with a look of weariness.  
  
"Je pense autrement," snorted the first, who swept right past me, jarring the basket as he passed. A handful of lilies and irises scattered onto the cobbles. As I bent down to reclaim a white lily, the second boy nearly barreled into me as he passed. A few paces away his foot suddenly shot out from under him at an odd angle, and he met the cobbles full in the face.  
  
The boy muttered a word under his breath as he regained his feet. Glancing down at the paved ground, he saw what I had already lowered my gaze to. He looked back up, eyed my disarrayed basket, and caught my stare with pure hatred in his eyes before finally growled hatefully at me before turning on his heel and storming off after his playmates.  
  
I looked back down at the flower, its petals darkened and stained. It was a golden lily, the "fleur-de-lis", its petals splayed across the cobbles. In that moment, I saw the symbolism taking form.  
  
-----  
  
I still remember the day our Mayor rode through the town on an old tumbrel, announcing the confirmed murder of King Henri. I was fifteen years old then, and it was the day after my grandmother and mother had gone out to cast their votes in the election - my grandmother for Jean, and my mother for Louis. I had wondered at how a King's death could pass so quickly within two days, but from what I had heard of the villagers' conversations, Henri had not been a satisfactory ruler. The relief was evident in the cheering that swept through the town from a crowd gathered in the town center, and I remember pausing at the washtub in my family's cottage, nearly dropping and shattering a clay bowl as dozens of voices erupted without warning from outside.  
  
My grandmother had reached her final days only a week after the election. In her parting hours, she reflected on her life in the village.  
  
"We've come a long way from where we once stood, child. I remember when I was a young girl like you," and even under the circumstances, I knew I could never truly relate to her experience. "Now our town is finally out of its harness and starting to grow, as it was due to." My mother had fidgeted, trying not to look impatient as her own mother rambled on. "It's too bad I won't be around when things get better, but I'll tell you one thing - I like what I see now. Take care of yourself, my girl... embrace what comes in your youth."  
  
She died quite peacefully. My mother didn't cry, but I certainly did.  
  
The death of the king and the consequent election of a mayor hadn't affected me very deeply at the time, but now I know the irreversible change that had been made.  
  
Every trace of royalty had left our nation after the murder. Apparently, there were no heirs to the throne. King Henri's daughter had already disappeared when his body was found. Her royal guardian, Lady Fyda the swordswoman, also vanished two days later. Perhaps, with her position as the captain of the Royal Guard, she could have claimed the throne or some similar seat of office. Having been an admirer of her strength and courage, I still wonder at the possibilities... but that is all in the past. She is gone, and we have our mayor. Even the soldiers fled the country after a month.  
  
Certainly we had escaped from an absolute monarchy, but what is our refuge now? With all of our progress, I still feel that we are like rats, swarming against each other in the drain-pipe of civilization. Our methods have been masked by successions of inventions, but I know what we boil down to in the end. Rats, struggling amidst the bones of their own race.  
  
-----  
  
The fragrantly sticky smell of raw, crushed plant wafted up slowly. There was nothing more I could do, so I gathered up the other spilt flowers and started to rearrange them in the basket. I sighed. The royal family was no more. Now the lily could only symbolise one group: the people of Loire.  
  
-----  
  
I had started out as a simple street vendor, unnoticed by most. There had been other girls like me in those days, some competing against me with their own wrapped bouquets, while others sold bread and milk. A few young men also stood on the streets with caged chickens. Some of them would try to appeal to the passers- by with cries of "She'll fetch a bundle in the races!" or "Retired top runner - reap the meat at only a fraction of the gold!".  
  
Now, I am more or less alone. Certainly, a few vendors still ply their wares, but that has been taken into the backstreets and the poorer sections of Loire. I stay in the open, though, having been ordered by my shrewd mother to continue the business in the busier streets. I suppose it is fortunate that the others do no such thing, leaving me without competitors. However, it inevitably gets lonely, and at times I feel like a fool, like a game hunter continuing to fire wooden arrows at ducks and fowl while others employ hunting dogs and rifles.  
  
I stay on 1st Avenue. It is my life.  
  
-----  
  
Tourists. Passing figures with outlandish clothing, some of them rather graceless and gangly with thick leather jackets and sunglasses obscuring their eyes, while others shamelessly wander around the streets showing more skin than most Loireans would approve of. I see many of them as they enter the city gates. More than a few marvel at the beauty of our city. Some are actually willing to buy my flowers, and I am very grateful for their payment.  
  
It is late in the afternoon, with only a few men and women wandering the streets. My basket is still half full. The paling sky does not help to bring out the color of my flowers. I am losing customers to the coming darkness.  
  
One of the young foreigners catches my eye. He looks to be around my own age, and he seems to radiate an exceptional youthfulness. I can't help but stare at his hair - it is a mass of radically spiked tufts, the color of sun-bathed wheat, and it seems to glow dimly in the light of the setting sun. He moves through the crowd with a purposeful stride. As his oddly decorated epaulet comes into view, I realize he is coming towards me.  
  
"Hello there, good sir," I quickly greet him, "can I interest you in a flower? Only five gold pieces!"  
  
He looks pensive. For a moment, he seems ready to decline, and I hastily add, "I can't go home until I've sold all of my flowers." Then he shrugs, and I hear a faint jingling from somewhere about him.  
  
"Sure, I'll buy one." From his response, it is apparent that he is not predisposed towards buying flowers and gifts. For now, I am only lucky.  
  
I search my basket. What kind of flower would he want? What type of lady would he know? Would she want a rose, a violet, or a handful of daisies? Try as I might, I can't discern much about him. Certainly there is a statement being made with his hair, and his clothing is that of a weathered traveler. But for all I know, he could be deeply romantic on the inside. I suppress a sigh and reach into the basket, trying to pick out something to match his vibrance.  
  
"Here you go," I say as I hand him a vibrant red daisy. "Enjoy."  
  
"Thank you." Smiling politely, he opens a small pouch on his belt and takes out five coins. I barely stop myself from staring as I see and hear the handfuls of gold inside.  
  
"But there are still so many left. Could you buy another one?" It must be the panic setting in, I think alarmedly to myself. This seems to catch the young man off guard. Now there is a definite hint of impatience in his features, a slight tensing of his jaw. But after a few moments, it gradually subsides, as though he has bitten back a sour retort, and he nods.  
  
"Alright, I guess." He takes out another five coins and waits as I select another flower.  
  
"Thank you very much." I can hardly speak the words as his gold is exchanged for a bright pink rose. "Have a nice day, sir."  
  
"Thanks. Bye," he says, waving to me rather distractedly. He looks down at the flowers in his hand as he slowly walks off, heading north along the street toward the 2nd and 3rd Avenues. Similarly, I gaze down at the coins in my hand. Ten! Ten whole gold pieces...  
  
Someday, Maman. Someday, I shall gather enough gold to travel around the world and leave this city behind.  
  
But for now, I have my flowers. And wherever they go, I hope they make someone happy.  
  
------------------------------------------------------------------ -------------- 


End file.
